


I Will Share Your Road

by AndreaLyn



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, Matchmaking, Max uses his will to meddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: Even from beyond the grave, Max can't stop messing around with Michael's life. One year after they declare him gone, they read his last will and testament, which gives Michael sole ownership of Max's house on one condition:He has to live in it with Alex Manes for thirty days.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 55
Kudos: 263





	I Will Share Your Road

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Hopeless Wanderer by Mumford and Sons.
> 
> This fic exists because I saw the red folder from the promo pictures and i went, 'what if Max left his house to Michael?' and then I asked, 'and what if he was also a meddling matchmaker'.

It takes three months for anyone to even suggest going through the normal steps of grief and action, after Max dies.

It’s six months before anything substantial happens.

And it’s a year before Max’s will is unearthed and Michael hears those bombshell words read aloud. He takes the folder with him, listening to Isobel calling after him, Liz pleading for him to think about it for more than a single second, but Michael can’t sit in that room with everyone staring at him with pity and hope. 

Worst of all, he can’t bear to look at Alex and see what he thinks about it.

He can’t believe Max. He’s somehow meddling even from _beyond the grave_ , which is a talent, even for him. Because, there, in his will, had been yet another Max move, where he thinks he knows better than Michael, and he thinks he can just heal all his old wounds with a single big act.

It’s not exactly on par with healing his hand, but it’s close.

“Hey.”

Michael looks up from where he’s gripping the will, crumpling the papers, to see Isobel approaching. It’s lucky that it’s her, because anyone else and he thinks he would have snapped. He can’t deal with Kyle’s pragmatism, Liz’s stubbornness, or Maria’s sympathy right now. And if Alex were the one to come out here and follow him…

He exhales shakily, shedding that thought from his mind.

“What the fuck,” he starts, roughly, “was he thinking?”

“After you bolted out of the room, the lawyer said that this was written five years ago,” Isobel says, sitting down beside him on the bench outside of Max’s house.

Well, not Max’s house. Not anymore. 

Not if Michael meets the conditions set out in the will. He closes his eyes, putting the pieces together and beginning to understand how long Max has known about him and Alex. Maybe even from the start, but it’s not like they ever got a chance to talk about it. 

“What do you think I should do?” 

“Michael Guerin, actually asking for advice?” Isobel echoes, giving him a snort. “Look. Max willed all the books to Liz, so they’ll be out of the way. The car and his savings came to me, which is going to help,” she admits, “but he left the house to you, Michael,” she says, squeezing his knee. “He wanted you to have a home.”

Michael looks up at her, lips twisting up and curling with the caveat that looms over the whole thing. “Max willed me the house on a _condition_ , Iz.” He reminds her, because they’d all been in that room together when the bombshell hit.

 _I, Max Evans, bequeath my home and property to Michael Guerin if he can inhabit the property alongside Alex Manes for thirty days_.

Fucking meddling sympathetic power-tripping _asshole_.

Michael loves him so much. 

“Are you honestly telling me that you’re not going to take him up on it?” Isobel challenges him sharply. “It’s one of Max’s final wishes. He wanted you to have a place to live, and, I guess he also wanted you to have someone to do it with.”

Five years ago would’ve been during one of Alex’s leaves back to Roswell, and if Michael strains to bring up those memories, it had been the time they’d reconnected out at Foster Ranch. Had Max seen them? Is that when he’d figured it out?

“Alex is waiting to come talk to you,” Isobel says. “I’m the barometer. Should I tell him that it’s stormy out here?” 

It’s a fucking hurricane, but Michael knows that he can’t avoid it forever.

He can, however, avoid it at least another few minutes. “I’ll talk to him inside,” he says instead, grimacing and pressing his lips together, clutching onto the copy of the will like if he crumples it up, then it won’t exist. He knows it doesn’t work like that, but if only it did. Then he could unwrench this situation that Max has put him in. 

It’s been a year and they haven’t given up on him, but they also can’t ignore his passing, not anymore. Isobel brings him into a tight hug before she leaves, and Michael should be a better brother and ask how she’s doing with this, but he’s too fucked up to be anything but selfish right now. 

By the time Michael’s headed back inside, everyone else has cleared out like they expect histrionics or fireworks. He’s not surprised. Given that he and Alex are oil and water these days, he understands why no one wanted to stick around and be a witness to that. 

It’s been like that since Maria dumped him, and Michael suspects that part of Alex’s anger is over the fact that his friendship with her had strained, and he would rather take it out on Michael.

That, or maybe Michael’s just projecting, seeing as Alex doesn’t seem that angry with him and he needs to make up excuses for why he hasn’t taken a shot. Maybe Michael’s made it up, just so he doesn’t have to come to terms with the fact that he and Alex are both single, but he can’t convince himself to do anything about it. 

“Isobel told me to stay,” Alex says awkwardly, in the middle of cleaning up the water glasses from the will reading. “Are you okay?” He’s shifting a little, looking everywhere but at Michael, like he feels like he’s going to say the wrong thing if he does.

Michael collapses into the couch, his couch, and reaches for the bottle of whiskey that someone thankfully left behind, knowing he’d need it. “Max left me a house.” He shakes his head, lips curling up with a rueful smirk, because, “Max left me a house so long as you live in it with me for thirty whole days. Meddling son of a bitch,” he says fondly, on the verge of tears.

It takes him a moment to step back from the ledge, that scary precipice where he lets his anger get the better of him. 

“Yeah,” Alex breathes out, because he’d been sitting there when the lawyer read the stipulation.

 _Everyone_ had been. 

With Maria present, it had been really fucking awkward, because Max didn’t write anything in about him sharing the house with her. Then again, he still has no clue why Max made this call, other than Michael knowing that Max had known about Alex, all those years. 

Time to put this to rest, make sure Alex knows the lay of the land, and Michael’s stance.

“Look, you don’t gotta do what Max wants,” Michael says. “I’ve got the Airstream and I know it’s not a palace, but I’ve never needed anything else.”

Alex cautiously perches himself on the edge of the couch, staring at Michael with a sheepish smile. Michael remembers that smile, it’s the one Alex has when he’s done something and he’s hoping that a sweet-faced apology is going to do the trick.

The fucking problem of it is that usually it works.

“Kyle’s already bringing a few of my things here, along with Buffy,” he admits. 

Michael stares at him, beyond lost. “ _Why_?”

He’d kissed Maria, then descended into a wild tornado of toxic behavior. He’d called Alex every name in the book, he’d avoided him, he’d dated Maria two catastrophic times, he’s been an asshole to everyone in town who deserves it and more that don’t, and the whole time, his excuse is that he lost his Mom, he lost his family, he lost their answers, he lost Max. Those things _happened_ to him. 

Him losing Alex is something he did to himself.

“Things between us are shit, Alex,” Michael says morosely, staring at his hands in his lap, his _healed_ hand. “You don’t have to do this.”

“You deserve a place to live,” Alex counters. His words aren’t gentle. They’re forceful, like a smack of reality. “If Max decided a few years ago that he wants you to live here and I have to stick around for a while to make it happen, then let’s make sure the lawyer knows I set up shop in the guest room.”

He raises his brow in a perfect, handsome arch.

“Unless there’s a clause in there I didn’t read about needing to be in the master bed with you?”

Michael’s cheeks flush pink and he shakes his head wordlessly. He’s not sure he’d survive if it did. The mumbled, “No, guest room is fine,” feels like he’s been chastised, but what’s wilder is that he’s giving in. 

Given the chance to live under the same roof as Alex and get a house out of the bargain, Michael intends to take it. Maybe Max didn’t have the best methods of it, but at the core of it, he always did have good intentions. The will and this clause feels perfectly Max Evans. Great idea, stupid execution. 

He can do this, Michael thinks.

It’s thirty days. What can go wrong in thirty days of having a roommate?

* * *

It turns out that living with someone else isn’t the problem.

Max’s house is a mansion compared to what he’s used to. He’s not bumping his elbows against his cabinets. In the middle of the night, he doesn’t fall out of bed if he stretches too far. He can cook dinner without having to float a cutting board in the air for extra counter space. 

If he really wanted to, he could avoid Alex completely over the next month. 

The problem is that Michael got one perfect morning with Alex almost a year ago. He’d woken up to the soft touches of the man he’s in love with. He’d seen his bedhead and his soft, sweet smile first thing in the morning. He’d felt a soaring hope unlike anything he’d ever had before. 

The problem is this – living with Alex is like that morning all over again, a Groundhog Day that makes Michael’s soul ache for the warmth he felt when they were lying in bed together.

It’s day five and Michael comes across Alex in the kitchen with his crutch, leaning on it in a pair of sweatpants and his Air Force t-shirt, his forearm braced on the counter to support him. “Hey,” he greets, turning around so Michael can see the way his hair swoops, when it isn’t gelled and held in place. “I was just on my way out to get dressed before I headed out to Valenti’s.”

He nods towards a steaming cup of black coffee on the counter nearby.

“I made you a cup,” he says, and levers himself off the counter, with Buffy in wake. “I’ll make sure to take her with me so she’s not in your way.”

Alex heads out to the guest room before Michael can even get a word out, mute with his longing. 

Day nine is no better. 

Max had made sure he had two bedrooms in his house, but bathrooms had been less of a priority. The one he does have is expansive and gorgeous, and the shower even has a bench so Alex doesn’t struggle – small miracles, because Michael thinks if Alex had called him in to help with the suds and soaking, he would’ve dropped to his knees and begged to suck him off right there and then.

The one bathroom hasn’t been an issue, but today Alex and Michael are on similar schedules, with Michael scheduled to head to the junkyard ostensibly for a shift, but in reality, he’s heading out there to spend some time in the bunker.

He’s heading to the bathroom for a quick piss when the door opens and a burst of steam escapes around Alex, who’s wrapped up in a towel, gripping his crutch. 

Eyes wide, it’s clear that Alex hadn’t expected anyone else in his exit from the bathroom.

“Hi,” Alex says, and Michael would reply, but he’s too busy staring at Alex’s muscles, the way he's a little more buff than before, and then he wonders how much time he’s spent at the gym in the intervening year, while they were learning how to be friends.

Michael being speechless is becoming a bad habit over the last few weeks, and he’s gotta find his voice. “Hey, are you uh, are you all done in there?”

“Squeaky clean,” he says, and moves past Michael, the crutch creaking on Max’s wood floors.

Or maybe he should start thinking of them as his own.

Michael turns and watches Alex down the hall until he’s out of sight, locking himself inside the bathroom. Once inside, all he smells is the sandalwood and pine of Alex’s bodywash, choking him in the steam of the room. 

Even with Alex in the guest room down the hall, Michael can’t escape him. 

On day seventeen, Michael thinks he’s come up against the biggest test yet.

It’s been a _long_ few days. He hadn’t slept the night before, pulling an all-nighter at the bunker with Liz testing her newest theory, then he’d gone to meet Valenti and Alex at the Crashdown for the newest round of ‘what’s our government hiding now’ and then Isobel had a blackout followed by a breakdown because this time she _could_ remember the breakdown. 

Forty-eight hours later without sleep, Michael’s finally back at the house, so exhausted that he can barely lift his head. 

He walks inside to a dimly lit kitchen, the smell of pasta, and Alex wearing one of his Air Force hoodies, humming softly to the music he’s playing while he moves around the kitchen, setting places for two at the table. 

Michael’s so grateful for the dim lighting because his eyes fill with tears. He’s so tired, that’s what he’s blaming it on, but this whole scene belongs out of a sitcom with happy families, and that’s never been him. “What is this?” he manages, his voice rough. 

He has to instruct himself not to fuck it up, even though that’s Michael’s secret talent.

“I noticed you didn’t come home last night and Isobel texted me to say you’d been up with her,” Alex says, bringing a few beers to the table. “I figured you hadn’t eaten in a while, maybe not since we had lunch, so…”

So Alex took it upon himself to take care of him.

Michael sniffs sharply, trying not to think about this as anything but a one-time thing. If he thinks about this as something he could get used to, he’s only going to be sorely disappointed later when it evaporates like mist after its burned off in the morning. He still sits at the table and starts picking at the beer label, trying to reconcile the scenario in front of him.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Alex says, echoing his tone at the drive-in, years ago. “We’ll sit here and eat dinner together until we’re done these beers, then you go and _sleep_.”

Michael’s pretty sure he couldn’t argue if he wanted to, because he’s so tired that he’s seconds away from falling asleep, face down, in the plate of spaghetti right in front of him. 

He gives a sedate nod of his head, leaning over his plate to dig into it, filling his empty stomach with food, drinking beer to relax himself, and soaking up Alex’s warm looks in the candlelight every other moment. 

Michael feels guilty leaving the dishes on the table, but Alex insists, prodding and pushing at his hip when Michael tries to double back to help with the remaining dishes in the sink. He only tries to fight it once before he wanders down the hall, crashing face first into the pillows on top of the bed.

He sleeps for half a day and when he wakes up, there’s a weighted blanket covering him that he doesn’t remember going to sleep with.

 _Alex_ , he thinks.

He tugs at the edges of the blanket and pulls it tighter, letting the heavy weight comfort him in the stead of another person, sending him back to sleep and those warm, perfect dreams that await him. 

On day twenty-five, Alex finally folds and asks for help.

“I’m sorry, but I got stuck at the base,” he says when he calls Michael, who’s in the middle of working on the console in Max’s backyard, fidgeting with some of the pieces. “Can you take Buffy for a walk and feed her dinner? She’s really well trained, she shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

Michael stares awkwardly at the beagle, while she cranes her head to the side and gives him an inquisitive look back.

“Sure, yeah,” he says dismissively. How hard can it be, walking a dog?

For the most part, Michael’s given the dog a wide berth. It’s not that he dislikes the thing, but he doesn’t know if dogs and aliens get along, and Buffy is very clearly Alex’s service dog. He wouldn’t put it past the animal to choose sides, and to dismiss Michael completely. It doesn’t go like that at all. She’s calm, but attentive, careful to wind her way against his leg, pressed up there.

She likes him, he thinks, until he remembers something Alex had said.

_She tends to stick close when she can sense someone’s sad._

“Great,” Michael scoffs, when they get back to the house and she curls up against his side, staring at him with those big puppy dog eyes. “Even the dog knows how pathetic I’ve become.” She paws at his knee and Michael runs his fingers through her fur, thinking about how it wouldn’t be so bad, not really, having this as part of his routine. 

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it ends.

It’s day thirty-one.

It’s AMO Day – Alex Moves Out – and Michael’s the most miserable that he’s been since before this whole thing began. 

That’s the weird part. Michael’s still so _angry_ about so much. Every morning he wakes up and he’s furious that Max died for Rosa, he’s livid that they haven’t found a way to get him back, and he’s still hellbent on revenge against Jesse Manes. He’s burning with all those things, but ever since he moved under this roof with Alex, there’s been something else in there with it.

It’s a thread of hope and light.

He knows he can rage about Max, because he’ll come home to Alex cooking dinner in the dim light. He’s allowed to be furious about Jesse, because while he watches a trashy How It’s Made, Alex will be typing nearby, sitting a suitable distance away where it’s safe, planning to hack into Project Shepherd’s settings.

Max gave him a house, but then he had to go and make sure that Michael would also have a _home_ in Alex’s presence.

Stupid meddling perfect caring overprotective son of a bitch.

And now, it’s all going to be over, all because the lawyer officially signed off on the deed to the house, officially putting it in Max’s name. 

Alex no longer has a reason to stay here with him, so of course he’s going back home, to his real life. 

“Hey,” Alex says, bending over to grab his duffel. “Sorry, I meant to get out of here before you got back.” He gives Michael an encouraging smile. “We made it to thirty days.” He’s so _happy_ for Michael in this unapologetic and pure way and it breaks Michael’s heart to understand that the minute Alex walks out that door, this place is going to lose all the warmth and the welcoming atmosphere it had.

He's frozen in place, watching Alex walk away.

He’s seen this happen so many times, but this isn’t Alex walking away because it’s too hard. Alex already did the hard part. He stayed in the house with him, _for_ him, and he helped give Michael a place to live. This time, Alex isn’t retreating, he’s just making his next move. 

“I don’t want you to go,” he blurts out.

Alex turns, giving Michael a fond laugh. “I hate to tell you this, but I already got my own surprise property in a will and that one came care of Jim Valenti,” he says. “The cabin’s waiting for me.”

No. No, it can’t end like this.

Michael reaches out to grab Alex’s hand over the duffel bag, squeezing gently. “I don’t think I can live in this place without you,” he says, deciding to be honest.

He’s tired of secrets, after all.

Why not give himself up to Alex, completely and truly? 

“Guerin…”

“Alex,” he counters, pained, but he doesn’t take his hand off of the bag. “Max left me this place with you in mind because he knew how I felt about you. Even five years ago, he knew. He knew about us when we were seventeen, maybe even more than I knew about us.” He’s not sure what he can do to make Alex stay, but he’s willing to get on his knees and beg. He tries to tug the duffel from him, pulling until it’s in his arms and Alex finally lets go.

He doesn’t look happy about it, but he’s not pissed off, so much as he’s resigned.

“You didn’t want to be with me,” Alex reminds him quietly. “We’re friends. We’re allies against this thing my father’s built. You wanted a fresh start.”

“When Max healed me, he made me think that I needed that,” Michael admits. “And then he puts this in his will, and I can’t help but wonder, maybe I didn’t really understand. Maybe he just meant that I had to stop looking at the hurt of the past. I told him that the only time I felt like I had a home was with you.” 

Michael nods as those words hit him, and he gets it.

This house is nothing but stucco and siding without Alex in it. “Maybe all Max was trying to say is that I needed to stop looking at my mauled hand and broken heart, to start looking at the hope and the home that you gave me.” He shakes his head, like he’s not entirely sure about what he’s even saying. 

Alex doesn’t look so sure himself.

“Alex, I love you,” Michael says bluntly. “I think I always will. When I realized that after Caulfield, a year ago, that scared the shit out of me, because I didn’t know if we could be together, be in love, without it blowing up in our faces, but the last thirty days have been so _good_ ,” he whispers, because he knows that. “It showed me that we can do that.”

“What if that was all just an act?” Alex protests.

Michael sets the duffel bag behind him, reaching out for Alex’s hands with his own. “Were you acting when you made me dinner? Tucked me in with blankets?”

Alex shakes his head, his eyes wide and his brow furrowed, almost like he doesn’t exactly believe what he’s hearing. 

“Love doesn’t have to be crash landings and meteorites striking the Earth,” Michael says, beginning to get that. “Maybe it’s taking the dog out for a walk, sharing body wash, and trading chores while we dig into alien conspiracies,” he cracks.

Because he knows they’re never going to have normal lives.

That doesn’t mean they don’t deserve some happiness in the midst of that. 

“I don’t want to live here without you because if I do, it’s not a home, not to me, not without you,” Michael vows, shaking his head as his heart sings out, sure of this in a way he hasn’t felt in months. “I’m asking you to stay with me, Alex, but not in the guest room. I want you to live here with me, together. When we revive Max, then maybe we can move to your cabin, start living off Jim Valenti’s hospitality instead,” he jokes. 

He’s getting desperate, but he knows he’s winning, because Alex hasn’t reached for the bag.

“Stay here with me, Alex,” he pleads. “Stay home.”

Alex nods, slowly, but he’s been drifting closer through Michael’s impassioned plea. His fingers splay over Michael’s neck, brushing through his curls, and he lets out a painful sobbing moan of a sound, looking like Michael’s said words that he’s been waiting years to hear. 

“I’m here as long as you keep looking my way.”

Michael’s smile is tremulous and full of relief, because he knows what that means.

 _Always_.

* * *

One year after that, Max comes back to his house after they revive him from the dead.

And Michael and Alex? 

They go back home to the cabin that’s waiting for them, together, because it doesn’t matter what foundation supports the house they’re in, when the one they’ve built for themselves can last anywhere.

They’re home now, with one another. That’s all they need.


End file.
